Spells and Deductions
by RandomCreativePerson
Summary: Sherlock Holmes receives a letter to a strange school called Hogwarts. He doesn't believe in magic, but that might change...
1. Discovery

I DO NOT OWN! SHERLOCK BELONGS TO BBC, AND MARK GATISS, STEVEN MOFFAT AND SUE VERTUE.

ALSO, THE HARRY POTTER UNIVERSE BELONGS TO J.K ROWLING. I JUST MIX IT UP A LITTLE.

**Spells and Deductions**

Sherlock Holmes slammed his bedroom door shut. The eleven year old had been bullied by his brother for the second time that day. To make matters worse, it was his birthday, the 6th of January. The breeze was blowing heavily outside, and the world was covered in a blanket of snow.

He kicked his bed, and plopped onto his mattress, staring at his ceiling. His room was full of...oddities, to say the least. He had memorized the periodic table of elements when he was 9, but he still hung it over his desk, in order to remember the fond memories he had, memorizing it with his dog, Redbeard. _Now I don't even have him,_ he thought sadly.

Redbeard had been put down the previous month, and Sherlock felt as though he had lost a brother, truer than Mycroft could ever have been. He heard something outside the front door. A small sound, light, possibly a delivery, too light to be a parcel, but too calmly delivered to be a bill. Conclusion: It's a letter.

This surprised him. His parents didn't have too many friends, and none close enough to send letters. He went down to see what it was all about. He saw a letter written on old yellowish parchment, with a seal. _The sender is quite old fashioned, _he thought.

He flipped the letter over to see who it was addressed to. It simply read, in elaborate cursive handwriting, which he found hard to read:

Mr S. Holmes  
The Cramped Bedroom  
284 Landern Street  
Suffolk

He wasn't sure what to be more surprised at, the fact that the sender knew where he slept, or that he received a letter at all. He quickly opened it with a bread knife that he found in the kitchen and skimmed through the contents.

_Dear Mr. Holmes...you have a place ...Hogwarts ...witchcraft... wizardry... _Sherlock read through the letter several times in succession, becoming more and more sceptical with every read.

He concluded that it was some sort of an elaborate prank set up by his parents, to make him feel better on his birthday. Well, if they thought that it was going to work, it didn't. He walked into the dining room and told his parents about the letter. They stared at him for 3 minutes without movement, and then stood up and hugged him.

Mycroft walked in holding an apple, which he dropped in the shock of seeing his parents dote over Sherlock.

He gave a questioning look to his mother, and she mouthed," He's got his letter!" Mycroft groaned.

"Just this once," he muttered. "Why couldn't he be a squib?"

"Why are you two so happy?" said Sherlock.

His father, Howard, looked at him with pure pride glimmering in his eyes.

"Sherlock, dear, you are... a wizard."

Sherlock stood in somewhat catatonic shock for a few minutes, before bursting into hysterical laughter. Mycroft rolled his eyes. He picked up his apple, pointed a finger at it, and took a large bite. His parents looked at him disapprovingly, only to receive a shrug in return.

"We aren't joking, dear," said Sherlock's mother, Adeline. "You are a wizard. I'm a witch. Daddy's a wizard. Mike's a wizard." Mycroft groaned.

Sherlock smirked. He had learnt at a ridiculously early age to not believe what he heard immediately. "Prove it," he said. "Show me."

His mother's mind seemed to be making a split-second decision. She straightened herself, dead serious, and left to look for something in the storeroom. After a few minutes of uneasy brotherly glances, she returned with two long wooden sticks in her right hand. The sticks were thick, as if they encased something, and Sherlock recognized the woods of the two sticks to be Alder and Hazel. His mother had taught him about different sorts of wood when he was seven.

Mycroft looked at his mother in such a way that he looked like a 3 year-old. "No, Mike", she said sternly. " We all know what happened the last time we let you have your wand. You nearly burnt the house down! And you hadn't even come of age!"

In this monologue, Sherlock registered just one word. Wand. He, out of habit, started digging into the mystery within his head. Wand. Stick, wood, magic, fairy tales. Sherlock's nose involuntarily crinkled in disgust. He hated the impracticality of fairy tales. After digging deeper into unexplored areas of his head, he was absolutely prepared to believe that his entire family was delusional, and that he'd have to run away from home and live life as a hermit.

His mother handed one of the sticks to his father, and pointed it at one of the windows in the dining room. Almost a split second later, the windows slammed shut. Sherlock stepped back._ Okay, _he thought to himself. _His parents have sensors installed. No problem. All fancy houses have them these days._

His father pointed his stick at the ceiling and whispered something. A tiny flame, accompanied by a few theatrical red-hot sparks burst out of his wand. It didn't scare Sherlock, instead, it intrigued him. His mother rolled her eyes, and a gust of white wind from her stick blew out the sparks.

Sherlock tried to come up with a logical explanation for all of this. He concluded that the sticks had been cleverly engineered to appear wooden from the outside, while on the inside, there was a lighter and a miniature fan. "Amazing," he thought aloud.

Adeline smiled at him. "It's one of the most beautiful things in the world, magic. It has the power to create, as well as the power to destroy. It can harm, and it can heal."

"No, I mean the technology." He walked up to his father and snatched the stick from his hand. He began swishing it about, doing so with no grace or poise whatsoever. The wand retaliated by making the gorgeous custard that Adeline had made from scratch that morning land all over Mycroft, who had just returned from the storeroom, where he had found his wand.

Sherlock had no intention of apologizing to his brother, and cautiously laid his the wand on the dining table. His mother looked thoroughly exasperated, along with slightly worried. "I do hope we haven't broken the Statute, have we?" she told Howard.

"Of course not," he replied. "It was an accident."

Someone clearly didn't think of it as an accident. Mycroft (who had cleaned himself) raised his wand, pointed it at Sherlock and shouted,"Incendio!"

Sherlock braced himself, only to soon find that he was shielded by his father. "That'll be enough," said Howard. "How can you attack your brother without justified provocation?"

"Justified provo-? He threw a bloody pie at me!"  
"It was an accident! Apologize." Mycroft grumbled.  
"Sorry, Sherlock."  
"You must take him to Diagon Alley. Me and your mother are leaving to attend Uncle Thomas' funeral."

Uncle Thomas was a disgusting old blighter who barely anyone in the family found agreeable. Yet , to avoid the pains of looking after Sherlock & Mycroft, Adeline and Howard were prepared to do anything.

Mycroft sighed, acknowledging defeat. "Get your letter and a coat, and in 15 minutes, be downstairs."


	2. Introduction

I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING! SHERLOCK BELONGS TO BBC, AND MARK GATISS, STEVEN MOFFAT AND SUE VERTUE.

ALSO, THE HARRY POTTER UNIVERSE BELONGS TO J.K ROWLING. I JUST MIX IT UP A LITTLE.

SORRY ABOUT THE LAST CHAPTER. I WROTE IT OVER THE COURSE OF SOME 15 MINUTES.

Sherlock had a lot of experience with flea markets. And he hated them. He hated the crowds, the smell, and the noise. He kept asking Mycroft about what 'Diagon Alley' was, and Mycroft compared it with a flea market. He had already begun to hope for the worst. They had just left Landern Street, when the world started to blur, and Sherlock felt dizzy. The scene rushed past, and Sherlock almost collapsed. Thankfully, Mycroft caught him in time.

Sherlock tried to straighten himself. He blinked the dust out of his eyes, and looked around him. He was in a dark alleyway, a place he had never been before. Everything about the place was alien to him, except for Mycroft standing by his side, holding his hand. He immediately let it go.

They walked out of the alleyway into a populated street, with people bustling about, entering shops and buildings, conversing about the daily news. Sherlock had seen things like this nearly every day, and was not surprised by it. What he was surprised about was a sign that proclaimed proudly, 'The Leaky Cauldron, London, established in 1683' hanging on a tiny shop in the less populated corner of the street.

His eyebrows furrowed. He didn't live anywhere near London. How on earth could he have...? He posed the exact question to his brother, who simply smirked.

"Apparition, dear brother. The sooner you learn to do it, the better." He ran a hand though his dark hair and walked faster, leaving Sherlock running to catch up with him. He walked into The Leaky Cauldron, only to find a rather large pub, where some people were greeting Mycroft.

"Well! Look who it is!" said the bartender. "Mr. Holmes, the elder!"  
"Nice to see you again, Tom!" said Mycroft, smiling.  
"And who's this?" The bartender eyed Sherlock. "Mr. Holmes, the younger, I presume?" Mycroft nodded, his smile vanishing. "I thought so! You two have the same eyes!'

Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged a disgusted glance. "I'm here to take him to buy his books. He got his letter today."  
"Did he now? Well, I hope that you have the time of your life at Hogwarts! The wizarding world hasn't seen a finer establishment!"

Mycroft led Sherlock outside the back door of the pub, where the duo was greeted by a large brick wall. Absolutely impenetrable. Sherlock started wondering, where could they possibly go next? Mycroft whipped out his trusty black umbrella, pointed it at the wall, and tapped the bricks of the wall in a circular pattern, starting with the top left, then the one below, and so on.

To Sherlock's absolute amazement, the bricks slowly began shifting themselves, creating a hole in the wall that soon became a passageway. Sherlock was unaware of his wide eyes and gaping mouth until Mycroft said, "Close your mouth, unless you like the taste of flies." Sherlock snapped it shut, his brain whirring at 300 miles per hour.

Sherlock bracingly took three steps, just enough to enter into the narrow street. It was ridiculously crowded, even more so than most of the flea markets he had seen. All the shoppers were wearing elegant-looking long coats and cloaks, as well as funny witch hats. He, however, did not wish he was somewhere else. He wanted to explore this place, this little world that he had just been broken into. He found himself smiling within seconds.

They walked along the street, and Sherlock was greeted by passerby, chatting with him, remarking on his unbelievably curly hair, or his strangely prominent cheekbones. Some old women smiled at him and asked him if he was going to Hogwarts, to which he replied," Yes."

They soon reached a large, official looking building which had a sign, revealing no information rather than the name. Gringotts. They walked in the building, which Sherlock observed to be almost exactly like a bank, with the exception of the workers. The workers were abnormally short, with saggy, wrinkled skin and long, pointed ears. Sherlock tried to connect the image with a word, and he soon did; goblin.

Mycroft approached the nearest counter with no hesitation. He confidently said, "The Holmes vault." The goblin at the counter, which was writing in an awfully large register, looked at him and asked, "Where's your key?"

Mycroft dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a shining silver key, and handed it to the goblin. Sherlock noticed that his identity tag read, 'Griphook'. The goblin beckoned the two brothers, grabbed a lantern and guided them to a door. The door concealed a dark and dusty staircase, which they descended carefully. The staircase seemed to lead to a mine cart, which Sherlock boarded unwillingly.

To put it simply, the mine cart was much faster than your average one. It sped down a track that wasn't exactly uniform, and was filled with scary twists and turns. Sherlock had never been on a rollercoaster (they are so immature), but he suspected that this is what it felt like. Thankfully, neither of the Holmes brothers suffered from motion sickness, otherwise the whole thing would get quite messy.  
_

After withdrawing 350 galleons from the Holmes vault, Sherlock whipped out his shopping list and scanned it carefully. They decided not to head to 'Flourish and Blotts', the wizarding bookstore, considering Mycroft still had his first year's books, and there was nothing new on the list. Sherlock, however, spent a good fifteen minutes literally drooling over some of the books on display in the store. In the end, money was spent at the bookstore, as Sherlock bought a few books that caught his fancy.

Next on the list were some pieces of equipment that had to be picked up for Potions. Although the list said pewter, Sherlock wanted a brass cauldron. And much to Mycroft's annoyance, Sherlock always gets what he wants. With nothing left to buy besides a pet and a wand, Sherlock and Mycroft, exhausted by the day's activities, headed toward The Owl Emporium and other Magical Menagerie. Sherlock asked his brother, "Where's your pet? How come I never saw him?"

Mycroft sighed and replied, "Brother mine, it is not a necessity for every member of the wizarding world to own a pet. I choose to live my life independently, and not having to clean up behind some filthy animal. "

Sherlock was still quite pained by the death of Redbeard, and was hesitant in devoting his love and time to another animal, but something in him stirred at the sight of the beautiful barn owl that was preening its feathers proudly for passerby to admire. Sherlock had quite a bit of money left, leaving out the expense of a wand.

"I want that one," he said. "What's its name?"  
The shopkeeper grinned proudly and complimented Sherlock's taste.  
"_Her_ name is whatever you want it to be."

Sherlock started thinking. What were the female pirates that he knew about? Of course! Anne Bonny and Mary Read! He decided on the former, and stroked the bird's head. _Hello, Anne._

"She likes you!" said the shopkeeper in a strangely relieved voice. He had feathers on his hat, definitely not for a decorative purpose, and circular cuts on the fingers of his left hand._ He's been selling birds for a long time, possibly 6-7 years, _thought Sherlock. _This bird must have been giving him a world of trouble_._ Also, he's left handed._

The bird perched herself on Sherlock's shoulder, resting her head against his hair, which must have been an excellent pillow. They walked toward the last stop on their list, Ollivander's Wand Shop. The street had cleared up considerably now. The sun was close to setting, and wizards were apparating left and right. They entered the shop, only to find a trio there already, consisting of two adults and a young boy with light brown, straight hair. He looked eleven years old, like Sherlock, but the height difference was rather surprising. Sherlock was often told that he was tall for his age. He tried deducing the entire family, a skill he had been perfecting since he was 7.

_Let's see, th_e_ adults are married (rings), the boy shows resemblance to both_ of_ them, and so they must be a family. The mother is employed in the military, judging from her tight bun and her posture. The father is a hotel manager; he has his wallet sticking out of his jeans. It's a complimentary wallet given to him by the hotel he works in. The boy has no pets, though he has a bag containing exactly what was on the shopping list. That means he doesn't want to go overboard with his shopping. Why? The only possible reason is limited finances. Conclusion: the parents are not wizards._

Sherlock saw all this within a split second, and wondered if he'd ever get the chance to verify it. He was snapped out of his intense mental state by Mycroft who pushed him forward toward the clerk's table. The shop had only one inhabitant besides the family, Sherlock and Mycroft; a man who looked a thousand years old, his face full of almost nothing but wrinkly skin. And yet, his eyes twinkled, as though he knew all the secrets of the world. _This is Mr. Ollivander. It must be._

Sherlock stepped forward, his eyes shining with wonder. Ollivander glanced at Mycroft, and smiled in a nostalgic manner.  
"Could it be?" he said. "Mycroft Holmes? Elm and phoenix feather, was it not? Ten inches, I believe? Surprisingly swishy?" Sherlock eyes widened. Is that what Mycroft's wand was? He probably could have identified it himself, but the last time he saw it, he was almost broiled.

_Hang on. Phoenix feather?_ _Then again_, he thought. _If magic and wizards exist, so can their creatures._

"Come closer. Let me have a look at you. Both of you, now, quickly!" Ollivander placed a gentle hand on each of the two boys' shoulders, and brought out something from his pocket. _Seriously? Measuring tape? _Sherlock was expecting something dramatic and dazzling. However, he did find what he wanted. The measuring tape flicked his right arm sharply (on its own!) and measured the width of his elbow. Then it went on to the other boy, and measured his hand span. While the tape floated up to Ollivander's ear and acted as though it were whispering to him, the boy next to Sherlock decided to engage in a bit of conversation.

"Hello," he said innocently. "I'm John Watson."  
"Sherlock Holmes."  
He paused, trying to formulate a decent reply. "That's an interesting name..."  
Sherlock glanced at him. "Thanks."  
Anne tapped John's head approvingly, making them both laugh.

By the time they conversation died out, Ollivander brought out two wands, for Sherlock and John to test. They did, and Sherlock's malfunctioned, while John's didn't show any reaction at all. Dejected but not giving up, Ollivander went up to the first floor of the shop and selectively picked out two more wands. Again, this ended in failure, with both wands sending violent blasts of freezing air that destroyed some rather lovely flowers lovingly kept in an ornate vase. Mycroft had to be ejected from the shop as he was laughing indecently.

The sun soon set, and everyone in and out of the shop was exhausted. Ollivander wasn't going to give up hope, though. He muttered something about 'last hope' and 'miracles do happen' as he picked out two wands neatly lined up next to each other, and brought them out of their boxes. Anne screeched loudly, causing John's parents to cover their ears. She didn't like being ignored.

"Cedar and dragon heartstring, 12 inches, hard," he said, handing Sherlock a delicately crafted wand. "And English Oak, unicorn hair, 10 inches, slightly springy," handing a robust wand to John. They waved their respective wands about in perfect synchronization, and almost immediately, a golden mist erupted from both the wands, illuminating the shop. Even Mycroft noticed it from outside the shop. Sherlock and John were too wonder-struck to do anything. The mist rose into the air and exploded into gorgeous golden fireworks that finally disappeared.

Ollivander clapped and cheered like a three year old. "What's to be so happy about?" asked Sherlock. Ollivander turned to him and said, "There is a long, long history behind those two wands. I first came across these at least 75 years ago. These two wands were crafted by two brothers, who made them especially to complement each other. 75 years later, they were not able to find matches. If one chose a witch or wizard, the other reacted violently. It crossed my mind that I wouldn't live to see them choose anyone. Thank God, now they have! There is a great potential for friendship, close to brotherhood between you two. Stay always in each other's good books. It will bring great fortune to you both."

Sherlock and John exchanged a smile and a glance and parted, thanking Ollivander. As Sherlock walked away from the shop with Mycroft, one name stuck in his head.

_John Watson._


	3. Journey

I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING! SHERLOCK BELONGS TO BBC, AND MARK GATISS, STEVEN MOFFAT AND SUE VERTUE.

ALSO, THE HARRY POTTER UNIVERSE BELONGS TO J.K ROWLING. I JUST MIX IT UP A LITTLE.

THANKS FOR THE REVIEWS, FAVORITES, AND FOLLOWS! I'M HAVING A LOT OF FUN WRITING THIS STORY!

For Sherlock, the next few months until September were dominated by literary pursuits. Sherlock skimmed through the books he had bought, as well as some that belonged to his parents, and his school books.

His summer was entirely spent in the confines of his bedroom, which he only exited for meals, to which he brought his books. By July, he had finished reading the course books and the 1st, 2nd and 3rd years, but gave up soon after, as the urge to perform a bit of magic was overwhelming.

On the 31st of August, Sherlock was practically bursting with excitement. He had also had long debates and discussions with his parents about Hogwarts (Mycroft wasn't reliable) and had high hopes for the term. At breakfast that day, a large tawny owl rudely interrupted the meal, and much to his annoyance, dropped a dainty white envelope on Mycroft's rich slice of chocolate cake. Mycroft fished it out with a disgusted look on his face, and wiped off some of the frosting on it. "It's your platform ticket, "said he with no enthusiasm whatsoever. Sherlock, however, felt quite the contrary. Hogwarts was closer than ever.

He was particularly intrigued by the 'house' system. What house would he belong in? After hours of intense psychoanalysis, he could not achieve a satisfactory conclusion.

Sherlock slept that night with, for the first time in his life, butterflies in his stomach. He hoped that it wasn't all a long, long dream. Of course, that hypothesis was very unpractical, but it would account for how the months have just sped by. He chose to let it go, and drifted off into the most comfortable night for a long time.

He woke on September 1st, his head instantly jerking toward where he had kept Anne's cage. She was snoring peacefully, much to Sherlock's delight, as well as slight confusion,_ Birds can snore?_

He leaped out of bed joyfully as though he was high on sugar, and grabbed his cleanest buttoned shirt, along with the most formal pair of pants that he owned. He put on his cloak, and stood in front of the mirror with a critical eye. Obviously, he found no faults in himself.

He walked down the stairs with a lot of pride in his gait, but with a dominant sense of hyperactivity. Exactly 25 minutes later, he stood on platform 8 of King's Cross Station, London. Apparition was a truly marvellous invention. _Hey, how come everything's based and/or situated in London? Because it's widely accessible? Maybe._

Sherlock hadn't even bothered to glance at his ticket, which he now realised said Platform 9 ¾! How absurd! He was at King's Cross, so he had got some part of the plan correct. He must not have realized how frantic his voice sounded, as his mother chuckled when he asked her about it.

"No need to get so tense," she said, suppressing a grin of amusement. "The way to Platform 9 ¾ is here." She said this and stopped, facing the wall between platforms 9 and 10. Sherlock saw where this was going.  
"I suppose I have to run into the wall now?" his voice dripping with scepticism.  
His father nodded in agreement. "Go ahead, dear. We're right behind you."

Sherlock's eyes widened with disbelief. Did he really have to run into a solid brick wall? He didn't even have health insurance! _Good thing Mycroft isn't here, _he smirked. _ He probably wouldn't have fit through the supposed 'portal'. Ah, well. It would have been quite entertaining to see him try._

Sherlock closed his eyes, letting his mind go blank. He took a few steps back, eyes still closed, and started running at top speed at the wall. At this velocity, if the wall was solid, a concussion seemed imminent. He braced himself for impact, soon getting some. He felt his trolley crash into something, something rather large. He fell over, and Anne let out a concerned yet terrified shriek.

He brushed some of his hair out of his eyes, only to see a girl his age with curly brown hair, and skin the colour of milky coffee. She eyed him patronisingly with a look of disgust.  
"Watch where you're going, freak!" she said, before haughtily walking off.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and brushed off some of the dust on his cloak. His father helped him stand up, and immediately enquired if he was injured. Sherlock just shook his head, and walked off, attempting a confident, unshaken stride. He whispered,"Calm down," to Anne, and gently handed her cage and his trunk over to a man in red uniform who was taking the luggage of the children boarding the train.

The train was a gorgeous scarlet colour, with some areas a jet-black. It was rather old-fashioned, and it resembled the diagrams of steam engines that Sherlock had seen while researching on James Watt. He smiled automatically, as it had a comforting, homely feel. Not feeling the need to stay on the platform any longer, he turned to his parents, raised a hand in farewell, and boarded the train. He was unaware of his parents' proud smiles.

He entered the train, feeling charmed by the beautiful interiors, which reminded him of old country houses, inhabited by squires and barons. He entered the first cabin in his line of sight, only to find it occupied by two others. It was the girl Sherlock had bumped into earlier, as well as a boy with straight black hair and a dull look in his eyes.  
Feeling unfazed, he said, "May I join you?"  
The girl hesitated, but the boy said, "Go ahead."

He sat down next to the girl, keeping a safe distance. She turned to him and muttered ,"Sorry. About what I said earlier. I'm Sally Donovan." She stretched out her hand. Sherlock shook it and introduced himself. "And this is Phillip Anderson," she said, gesturing toward the boy.

The train still wasn't moving, and while Sally and Anderson talked, Sherlock didn't feel the urge to make conversation. He was staring out of the window, reflecting, when he heard Anderson say something.

He turned to Anderson and said, " Sorry, could you repeat what you just said?"  
Anderson looked surprised and said, " Spells can only have roots in Latin or Greek."  
_Wrong! _"What about _Rachenio_? The spell that induces an urge for revenge, gets its roots from German. Rache."

"That spell...it doesn't exist," said Philip, keeping his cool. "You made it up."  
"Want me to prove it?" said Sherlock angrily, standing up.  
The mad look on his face frightened Philip, who simply said, " I meant...spells don't have roots in Asian languages! Calm down!"  
_Wrong!_ Sherlock was getting infuriated now. He hated when people tried to act clever, even though they were stupid.  
" Well, what about the law of spell creation coined by Jen Ling? About etymology? Do your research!"  
"Yeah, well..." Anderson started.  
" Do me a favour, Anderson, don't talk, you lower the IQ of the whole train." He crossed his arms and slumped back into his seat.  
Anderson had had his fill. "That's it," he said. " Find your own cabin."

He pushed Sherlock out of the cabin and shut the door. Sherlock opened it again, facing Sally. _ She's got a photo of a weak, thin ginger cat on her handbag._ _Judging by the fading of the ink, the photo's months old. The cat wouldn't have even survived that long._  
"Sorry about your cat," he said, before shutting the door. He grinned triumphantly, knowing that he'd given them a shock.

After browsing through two more cabins, the train started moving. Sherlock found it hard to walk in the moving train, but soon found a cabin that was blissfully empty. He settled down in it, stretching his legs comfortably. He soon found that he was bored. _Damn it, I should have brought my wand. Or at least a book. _Making a decision to nap, he slowly closed his eyes, before hearing a familiar voice.  
"Hello! Nice to see you again!"

He recognized the voice instantly.  
"Hello, John Watson," he said, glad of company.  
John was clearly surprised by the formality of the whole thing. "Just John, please. You're Sherlock Holmes, right? Can I call you Sherlock?"  
Sherlock smirked. "Well, there's no sense calling me Patricia, is there?"  
John smiled.

_This is my chance to verify my deduction!  
_"What do your parents do, John?"  
He was surprised, but not offended by the question. "Well, my mum's in the military, I don't see her very often, so I don't know what she does _exactly_."  
_Check._  
"My dad's in the hotel business, he owns a small inn sort of place."  
_Check again!_  
"My parents aren't wizards, they were really surprised when I got my letter."  
_Excellent! Three in a row!_

"I am brilliant," he muttered egotistically to himself. He said, "Nothing," in reply to John's curious look.  
"No, go ahead. Do tell me. I don't like not being part of a conversation."  
"I had already figured out what you just told me when we first met. It's something I'm very good at. Deduction. I want to be a detective."  
John raised his eyebrows, in intrigue, not disbelief.  
"How?"  
Sherlock spiralled off into a long, complex explanation of how he deduced what he knew about John's family. By the end, John had an expression of pure admiration on his face.  
"That's amazing! Will you teach me?"  
Sherlock was pleased by the first sentence, but sighed on hearing the second. " The science of deduction isn't something that can be taught. It's an innate skill that one must be born with. Do you have any special skills?"  
John hesitated. "Well, I've always been interested in medical stuff... I want to be a doctor."  
"I see," said Sherlock, partially disinterested. He was just about to say something when a girl with lush hair the colour of a raven poked her head through the door. Sherlock supposed that she was prettier than several other girls he had seen over the course of the day.  
"Any room?" she said. Her gaze lingered on Sherlock a fraction longer than it did on John.  
"Lots," said John, politely. The girl introduced herself as Irene Adler, and sat down on the seat next to Sherlock. She eyed him with interest, unaware of the shy ginger-haired girl who was behind her. The girl smiled at John , and sat down next to him. In the midst of conversation, the girl's name was revealed. Molly Hooper.

Names were flying around, jokes shared, incidents recalled, and the atmosphere became quite jovial. A boy with light blonde, almost grey hair entered the cabin.  
"Greg! You too?" said John, getting up.  
"Hey, John! Didn't expect to see you here!" said the so-called Greg.  
"Greg Lestrade, everyone. We live in the same neighbourhood!" said John, happily.  
With this, hours seemed to tick by, with Irene cracking witty jokes, Molly (who lightened up, apparently) telling funny stories about her older brother(remarkable resemblance to Mycroft), John imitating his mother's boss ( clearly a boring, tough, old army general) and Greg talking about recent police reports his father had shown him. Although, as always, Sherlock didn't have quite as much participation as the others.  
However, he did laugh at jokes, and spout out bits of trivia, about the human world and the wizard world, and was a tolerable presence.  
No one noticed the sun set. 


	4. Sorting

SORRY THIS CHAPTER TOOK SO LONG! I WAS BUSY WITH EXAMS! BUT THE NEXT ONE SHALL BE ARRIVING PRETTY SOON! I'M ACTUALLY WORKING ON A FIC SIMULTANEOUSLY FOR ONE OF MY FRIENDS (IT'S HER BIRTHDAY, AND SHE REALLY WANTS TO READ A FIC TAILORED TO HER INTERESTS).

ONCE AGAIN, THANKS FOR ALL THE REVIEWS, FAVES AND FOLLOWS! IT MEANS A LOT TO ME!

The train gave a soft moan before stopping completely. Sherlock had been asleep, but soon drifted back to consciousness. "Have we reached?" he asked Irene.

"Most likely. Why else would we stop?" Sherlock nodded, and made an effort to get up. He stretched out his arms, and yawned briefly. Everyone in the cabin had already changed into their robes, while Sherlock was already wearing his. They all left the cabin in a chaotic manner, not bothering about their luggage or anything of that sort. They huddled together in a large group, only to find that there was no one on the platform.

Suddenly, a bellowing voice behind them said, "Firs' years! Firs' years over 'ere!" Sherlock turned to see a large object blocking their path. Under the light of the lantern he was holding, Sherlock discovered that he was a man! A ridiculously tall, a large man at least twice Sherlock's height, and quite intimidating. He had a long, unkempt beard, and tattered robes. Sherlock took a step back, cautious. The man rumbled (or was that a laugh?), and said," No need ta worry! I'm not goin' to hurt ya! Blimey, I'd lose my job if I did."

Curious, Sherlock asked," What's your name, sir?"  
Pleased at the attention, the man said," Don't call me sir! The name's Rubeus Hagrid!"  
He turned his attention to the rest of the flock, and called out for the first years again. Sherlock decided to trust him. _He has a dog, practices agriculture, for food obviously. Considering that he's been assigned the job of taking us to the school, he's most likely the gamekeeper._  
Sherlock involuntarily shuddered, wondering what to expect next.

Hagrid led them down a fairly steep slope, with lots of rocks. It may have been his imagination, but Sherlock could swear he heard voices emanating from the woods surrounding them. After the dangerous descent, Sherlock discovered that the group had been led to a miniature dock sort of place, with at least 8 boats tied to a mooring post. Hagrid shouted, "No more 'n three to a boat! Understand?"

Sherlock stepped onto a boat carefully. He didn't have much confidence with boats, considering he got seasick easily, and these boats were made of plain wood, and didn't look like they could hold more than 50 pounds. John soon boarded the boat after him, and was followed by Molly. The boats set sail once fully occupied, on their own, and miraculously, didn't sink immediately. Sherlock saw dark shapes in the water, and was even waved at by an ugly woman with a fish's tail.

Molly was intrigued by the fish swimming in the murky water, and almost fell in, before being rescued by John. Sherlock raised his head, only to see an old, medieval castle, with lights at every window. Captivated by the beautiful sight, he found himself staring at it. His parents' description barely scratched the surface. Sherlock grinned, and was so excited he almost fell off the boat as well.

After the ride, which took about 5 minutes, they were on the other side of the large lake. Eager to go inside, the group followed Hagrid through a side entrance to the castle. Sherlock gasped the moment he entered. The castle was full of gorgeous tapestries, and antique paintings. A young woman in a painting was particularly interesting to him, as she had a long flowing dress, which would have been hell to paint.

The woman winked at him, which gave him such a shock, he tumbled backward, into Hagrid, who chuckled, and told him," The paintin' won't hurt ya!"  
Straightening himself, he looked at the painting again, who was shyly covering her face with her fan, blushing.

The group followed Hagrid up a staircase, and was greeted by a stern old woman in emerald green robes. She had spectacles on her nose, and dignity in her posture. _Definitely a senior professor.  
_Hagrid went up to her and said something inaudible. She nodded and Hagrid descended the stairs.

After he left, the professor turned to face the students, and said,"Welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You have been chosen to attend this school, as there is great potential in you, and magic runs through your veins. Before beginning the term, you must be sorted into one of four houses, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin. You must pledge complete loyalty to the house you are sorted in, as it will be like family to you. However, this shall not stop you from making friends from other houses. Be on your best behaviour, for it reflects your house's attitude. At the end of the year, the house on its best behaviour, as well as the one which has achieved a lot in academics and Quidditch shall be awarded the House Cup. Clear?"

The students nodded in unison, murmuring excitedly. The professor then proceeded to lead them through enormous golden doors. Sherlock nearly fainted when she opened them.

The group walked into a largest hall they had ever seen, with five long tables, four parallel to each other, and one perpendicular to the rest, which was meant for the teachers. The former four tables were occupied by students of all shapes and sizes, all wearing robes with blue, red, green or yellow crests on them._ Each house has its own table then. _Floating candles were above each table, with a starry sky in place of the ceiling. At least Sherlock was expecting that bit.

The professor instructed them to stand in front of the teachers' table, in front of a stool with a tattered, old hat on it. _The Sorting Hat,_ thought Sherlock, shifting from foot to foot in his excitement.  
The hat soon revealed that it had a face, the face

Sherlock expected what was going to happen next, but the others received a shock. The Hat started singing! Several students gasped, while Sherlock listened attentively.

_On entering the Hall you saw me,  
Tattered, dirty and torn  
You did not realize that for a year  
I've been waiting to be worn!_

_So, come sit on the little stool  
Relax and take in some air  
I'll be put on your head  
and, trust me, I'll be fair._

_I'll sort you into the house  
that fits you the best  
I'll delve into your mind  
somewhat like a test_

_Will you belong in Gryffindor?  
The folks are brave and kind  
in chivalry and honour  
your true home you might find._

_Perhaps you're more a Hufflepuff  
Loyal and compassionate are they  
they'll work to get what they want  
and here might be where you'll stay_

_Ravenclaw is the third house  
where you might belong  
the eccentric and smart are welcome  
to this intelligent throng!_

_Slytherin might be the place for you  
If you're all about ambition  
Those who like playing the game  
Are part of this long tradition_

_So, step up! Don't be afraid;  
I'm not intimidating, am I?  
It'll be over in no time  
then to you I'll say goodbye!_

The entire hall burst into appreciative applause as the song ended. Sherlock soon joined in, for a singing hat deserved it. The professor in emerald robes made a scroll materialize out of thin air, and then inspected the parchment.  
"Adler, Irene!" she called out.

Irene confidently walked up to the hat and sat on the stool. She shifted on it uncomfortably for a few seconds, before sitting normally. The Sorting Hat descended on her raven curls and seemed to make a thoughtful face before calling out, "SLYTHERIN!"  
One of the four tables burst into applause, while the rest clapped their hands disappointedly. Irene happily got off the stool and went to the applauding table, where some greeted her with handshakes.

Next came a blur of names which Sherlock didn't recognize or didn't pay attention to (Sally and Anderson; both Gryffindor), before the professor called out," Hooper, Molly!"  
Molly stumbled on her way to the seat, and took her seat. The hat seemed to talk to her for a while before saying, "HUFFLEPUFF!" Sherlock took a deep breath. He was next.  
"Holmes, Sherlock!"

Sherlock carefully walked over to the hat. He was obviously anticipating this moment, but didn't realize how strange it would feel, to have a talking hat on your head in front of so many people. He took his seat properly, without falling off, or sobbing or anything. He felt the heavy presence of the hat on his head and braced himself for the announcement.  
However, he didn't hear one. He heard a voice, identical to the hat's, which gently whispered, "Dear me, dear me. This is a difficult one. I must commend you, my boy, for I see qualities of every house in you!"  
"What do you mean?" Sherlock whispered back.  
"I see might, I see bravery, I see intelligence, I see unusual loyalty, I see perseverance, and I see cunning. With all this, I think I'll leave the decision to you."  
Sherlock was surprised. "Aren't you supposed to be the one that sorts? Why do I have to do your job?"  
The hat chuckled. "Because, I think you'll be happiest in the house of your choosing. Do you want to be part of the brave, the loyal, the cunning, or the intelligent?"  
Sherlock thought about it, and whispered back his answer.  
The hat cleared its throat, and said," RAVENCLAW!"

As per the usual, Sherlock noticed one table erupt into cheers and smiles, and the other three seem dejected. Sherlock made his way to the cheering table and shook the hands of quite a few people before settling down. The Sorting proceeded without event. John was in Hufflepuff, to Sherlock's slight disappointment, while Lestrade was in Gryffindor.

Sherlock was strangely interested in a boy with dark hair, and a permanent smirk on his face, by the name of James (possibly goes by Jim) Moriarty. It was an odd surname, rather unsuitable for an eleven year old. He was sorted into Slytherin, where he barely acknowledged anyone.

Afterward, there was the feast, which Sherlock's parents had told him about countless times. Sherlock, who normally didn't eat too much, practically stuffed himself. With a full stomach and a tired body, Sherlock followed the Ravenclaw prefect to the Common Room. Funnily enough, the entrance had a door knocker, which asked a question. The prefect coolly answered the question, and the students entered the common room.

It was not enough to say that the Ravenclaw Common Room was the most beautiful room Sherlock had ever seen. It was located in a tower, and thus had quite a high ceiling. The wallpaper was a simple white, yet the navy blue curtains covering the windows provided a contrast. Bookshelves lined the walls, and there was a bronze life sized statue of a woman holding a wand in one hand and a book in the other in the centre of the room. The woman had to be Rowena Ravenclaw. Sherlock had read about her.

There was a staircase in the common room, which the 1st, 2nd and 3rd years ascended, and exited into 3 different doors, one for each year's students. The prefects told the boys to take the door on the right, and the girls to take the one on the left. Sherlock didn't understand what this meant, until he passed through the door meant for the first years. It apparently led to a hallway, with two doors of its own. Heeding the prefect's advice, Sherlock and 4 other boys entered the door on the right, to be greeted by 5 uniform beds, each with a blue mattress. At first, Sherlock wondered which one was his, until he saw Anne, lounging around on one of them. He laughed, and climbed into bed, causing her to fly away, out the window. He hoped he hadn't offended her or anything.

Sherlock fell fast asleep, gazing at the constellation mural on the ceiling.


	5. Classes

OK, SO THIS CHAPTER TOOK A LOT OF TIME. I REALLY SHOULDN'T MAKE PROMISES. SORRY ABOUT THAT. I'M NOW PLANNING TO DO CHAPTERS OF 'JUST LIKE YOU' AND 'SPELLS AND DEDUCTIONS' ALTERNATELY.

I SHOULD GIVE SOME JUSTIFICATION ON MY PART ABOUT WHY SHERLOCK'S IN RAVENCLAW. I THINK IT'S BECAUSE HE PRIDES HIMSELF MORE ON HIS INTELLIGENCE RATHER THAN HIS CUNNING. ALSO, PEOPLE AROUND HIM ADMIRE (OR HATE) HIM FOR HIS INTELLIGENCE AND EGO, BOTH OF WHICH ARE RAVENCLAW TRAITS.

THANKS FOR THE REVIEWS, FAVES AND FOLLOWS ONCE AGAIN!

Sherlock woke when he felt something tugging at his hair. He slowly opened his eyes to find the inquisitive Anne, trying her methods to wake him up. He laughed, and told her to give him a little privacy to change. He drew the curtains around his poster bed, and changed into his robes, which he noticed, had now obtained the Ravenclaw crest, a bronze eagle on a blue background, instead of the Hogwarts crest which was on it when he bought them. He left his sleeping area to arrive at the deserted common room. He asked the female prefect where everyone was, and the answer was simply: breakfast. _Of course, why didn't I think of that?_

Sherlock made his way down to the Great Hall without incident. However, the same couldn't be said for a fellow first grader, who aimlessly followed the pattern of the staircases, only to land on the 6th floor. Sherlock chuckled to himself.

When he walked in, the atmosphere was much lighter and friendlier than the previous night's. He realized that not all students were sitting on the tables of their respective houses, and taking this as example, comfortably sat at the Hufflepuff table, where John was speaking to Lestrade. The moment his hands touched the seat, a plate carrying toast and an omelette appeared in front of him. Sherlock greeted John, and began a conversation about their common rooms.

"Did you like yours?" inquired Sherlock, after describing the Ravenclaw Common Room to John.  
"Yeah, it felt really cosy, and home-y. It's practically underground, and everyone's so friendly and helpful. Also, there are plants. Way too many plants." Sherlock laughed as he ate his buttered toast.

Owls glided above their heads, screeching in cacophony. They dropped little objects above the tables. Sherlock noticed that if you were lucky, they fell exactly in your hands. If you aren't, they fell in your food. Sherlock was reminded of his brother, and a certain slice of cake. Sherlock received an envelope as well, which narrowly dodged his plate and landed in his hands. On opening it, Sherlock found that it was a letter from his parents, which was predictable. They asked him if he'd had a safe journey, and had been sorted. Sherlock made a mental note to reply to them. He blinked at the thought in surprise. Never before had he been so eager to reply to a letter.

After his breakfast, Sherlock had to go up to his common room once again, as apparently his timetable had been put up. Sherlock stood in front of the notice board for 5 whole minutes. _Charms, Defence, Transfiguration, Lunch, Flying Lessons, Potions. _ He memorized the order of classes and went to his first.

Sherlock entered the Victorian-looking classroom only to find an odd arrangement of seats. He closed his eyes for a split second, trying to recall what was written beneath the subject's name. _With...Hufflepuff._ He opened his eyes to find the cheery face of John, waving at him from one of the benches. He went up to him at took a seat.

The class was held by an incredibly short elfish professor by the name of Flitwick, who spoke in a high pitched voice. They were going to practice Aqua Eructo, a spell that made a jet of water spring from the tip of one's wand. They decided to practice the spell on a lit candle. Although the students were supposed to recite the incantation while using the spell, Sherlock had read up on it previously, and was quite comfortable with it. He simply willed for water to burst from his wand, and thought, _Aqua Eructo!_

A sparkling jet of water sprung out of his wand, and extinguished the candle in front of him. John's attempts to do the spell immediately succeeded as well, almost in perfect synchrony. They exchanged a smile, before Professor Flitwick descended on the two of them.

"Do that again," he said, looking curiously at Sherlock. He seemed to be amazed at something. Sherlock went ahead and extinguished the candle of a girl opposite him without uttering a word. Flitwick bounced up and down excitedly, looking rather foolish as he did so. "Excellent, my boy, excellent! Do you think you can try more than one this time? My, a boy your age..."

Eager to prove himself, Sherlock didn't bother to listen to the whole sentence. He concentrated hard, and thought, _Aqua Eructo Maxima! _Uniform jets of water flew out from his wand, drifted through the air and extinguished any nearby candles that were still burning. Flitwick gave one more jump before shouting, "Class dismissed!" and running out the door. Some fellow Ravenclaws were giving him looks of loathing while several Hufflepuffs including John were staring at him in wonder and admiration. Sherlock smiled in a satisfactory manner before grabbing his books and heading to the next class.

Sherlock didn't exactly know what to expect from defence. Was he expected to defend himself against other wizards, or magical creatures? He had a feeling this would be the most interesting class to him. The classroom itself was quite large, with a staircase at the end that led to a locked door. Sherlock was one of the first to arrive and took a seat at one of the bare wooden tables. In time, more people began pouring in, and Sherlock was informed that he would be taking this class with the Gryffindors. Greg opted to sit next to him, greeting him with a polite handshake.

The locked door opened itself, and a young, plump witch with a mass of frizzy hair clumsily descended the staircase, and while doing so, introduced herself as Prof. Mulberry. She told everyone to take out their textbooks, and begin a writing assignment. Sherlock had a messy, yet fast handwriting, and finished his work early. His gaze soon placed itself upon the teacher. _She does not own an owl, a cat or a rat (there's no fur and no feathers on her coat; maybe she has a frog).She's been very recently employed (she requires the railing to walk on the curved stairs; she's not used to them).Her family are all wizards (she's wearing a Gryffindor crest token made of iron that's rusted; must be old)._

In time, everyone finished their work, and the teacher droned on about ways to control Billywigs. Sherlock listened with half an ear to her; everything she was saying was quite familiar to him. _I suppose that's what you get for reading all of your textbooks before the school year even begins. _

After the rather tedious class, Sherlock was headed to the Transfiguration classroom. This class was the one for which he was close to being anxious for. Transfiguration was a very complicated style of magic, which required more time to master than any other. He remembered that this class would be shared with the Slytherins.

As he walked in, he was greeted by a stern and familiar face, belonging to the witch who was present at the previous night's sorting. She looked at him with an irked expression, when it struck Sherlock that he was precisely 5 minutes and 13 seconds late. He lowered his head apologetically, mumbled," It won't happen again," and approached the closest vacant seat. He noticed a giggle and a wave from Irene, who was two seats away from him. Sherlock looked around, and soon found Jim Moriarty sitting right at the back of the class. _Don't his jaws hurt from smirking 24/7?_

The professor introduced herself as Minerva McGonagall, and went on to explain the day's task. It was soon revealed that they would be practicing a simple, beginner's spell on a sewing needle. Sherlock finished it on one go, to find that while he had turned it into a button, Moriarty had turned his into a spool of thread. Not wanting to be outdone, Sherlock turned his into a tape measure. Moriarty sensed the silent competition and his spool soon became a pencil pouch. Sherlock was starting to get excited. He turned his tape measure into a coffee cup. The retaliation was a large tin of biscuits. Wanting to end it all, Sherlock rolled up his sleeves and turned his coffee cup into a pressure cooker. Unfortunately, this was when Prof. McGonagall decided to intervene. She stomped angrily to Sherlock's desk.

"Mr. Holmes, I believe the assignment was to turn a needle into a matchstick. Extra effort is appreciated, but not in this case. You could have injured someone if at any point in time, your magic went awry!"

Sherlock had prepared a comeback. "Shouldn't you be praising the fact that I just did a first year spell with the ease of a fifth year, Professor? After all, in other terms, I might be referred to as a prodigy!"

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth to say something, but shut it soon after. "Mr. Holmes, risking the safety of your peers was enough, but then you show cheek to a professor! I expect to see you here tonight for your detention." Before Sherlock could say anything to this in reply, she dismissed the class for lunch and strode away.

The Great Hall was bustling with energy and enjoyment when Sherlock entered. However, he saw that everyone was sitting at their own house's tables, and he followed suit. He was miserably eating his rather tasty beef stew, when the Headmaster commanded everyone's attention toward him.

If Sherlock remembered correctly, his name was Professor Dumbledore, and he was rather old. He had a long beard that almost extended beyond his waist, and white hair of the same length.

"I have an important announcement. Classes are dismissed for the day, as the teachers require the halls to be empty. Also," he said, noticing Sherlock's confused face," all those who will be serving detention have been excused." He seemed to say that with a smile, although it was hard to tell  
"Why?" inquired Sherlock rather loudly, causing a few neighbouring students to stare at him in horror.

Professor Dumbledore's smile vanished, and he solemnly said, "A first year Gryffindor by the name of Clarisse Heidelberg has gone missing. As she is new to the school, it is most likely that she has gotten lost. As the school is massive, a search party has been formed, to look everywhere within the bounds of the castle. After lunch, I request the House Prefects to lead the students back to their common rooms."

Sherlock suppressed a grin with difficulty. _Finally, something fun was going on!_


End file.
